Sell her dog?

Sell Premonition?

Earlier she’d planned to leave him with Beau, but that was because she’d thought it would be best for everyone. Selling him had never been part of the equation.

Cup forgotten, she strode past Daniel, intent on stepping into the backyard to get her dog. But when she reached the screen door, she stopped.

In the semidarkness just beyond the illuminated circle cast by the porch light, Beau knelt on the ground, his arms around Premonition. And he was crying. There he was, a man who was getting gray at the temples, hugging her dog, sobbing his heart out.

She should never have come to this place.

Everything was wrong. It had been wrong from the beginning.

“I’ll sell the dog.”

The words were out of her mouth before she’d even assessed them. Why had she said that? She would give Premonition to Beau, but she would never, ever sell him.

Without appearing to give Cleo a second thought, Daniel cut in front of her, slid open the screen door, and stepped outside. “Beau!” he shouted, moving toward his brother at a half run. “Good news. You can keep the dog.”

Beau looked up and said something Cleo couldn’t hear.

Daniel nodded.

Beau’s smile, when it came, was brilliant. Dazzling. He jumped to his feet, laughing, Premonition dancing around him, letting out a couple of excited barks.

Tightness gripped Cleo’s throat, grief was coming on.

Moving with a jerky awkwardness, she turned and walked across the living room to the front door. Blindly she groped for the handle, found it, and tumbled onto the porch, almost falling to her knees. Recalling the way Daniel had come after her before, she hurried down the steps. Instead of taking the sidewalk, she ran across the street, disappearing into the darkness between two houses. She kept running. Past houses casting warm light, past barking dogs, through backyards and front yards, until her side ached and her lungs were raw. She stopped, her breathing harsh in her ears, hands braced on her knees. Then, with a palm pressed to her side, she walked.

She couldn’t go back to the motel room. Not yet.

She passed an old cemetery. The iron gate was open. She took that as an invitation, and was soon wandering among the moss-covered tombstones. Gradually her lungs began to feel better. She collapsed in an open area, the grass cool under her cheek, the ground beneath her smelling like a mysterious concoction of things old and new.

In the peacefulness of the cemetery, she drifted off to sleep…

Daniel Sinclair was lying on the grass beside her. He pulled her into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers. Somehow their clothes disappeared, and his body touched hers, hot skin to hot skin. As she looked into his eyes, he filled her, a confident smile on his face, a man in total control. Let go, he told her without verbal communication. Just let go.

She felt herself letting go, falling away, while he continued to smile at her, cool as could be.

She woke up with a start, the slanted, erotic mood of the dream still upon her. It took her a moment to realize she was still in the cemetery. She groaned, her body stiff, her clothes and skin covered with dew. How long had she been there? She pushed herself to a half-sitting position. It had to be late. There were no lights in the nearby houses. There was not a single sound of a vehicle anywhere.

Off in the distance, sounding miles and miles away, a dog barked.

She got stiffly to her feet and began moving in the direction of the motel. By the time she reached the highway that led to The Palms, she still hadn’t seen any sign of life. Rather than walk next to the highway, she clung to the ditch. At one point, a lone semi moved in her direction, the headlights cutting through fog she hadn’t realized was there until that moment. She jumped behind a tree, waited for the vehicle to pass, then continued to the motel.

No welcoming beacon lit the way. The neon sign that announced the name of the motel had long ago ceased to work, and, like everything else around the place, no one had bothered to fix it.

Gravel crunched under her feet as she approached her room. Suddenly she spotted a dark form uncurling itself from her door, then a voice came to her out of the darkness.

“Get lost?” The voice and shape belonged to Daniel Sinclair. She was too tired to deal with him now.

“What do you want, Sinclair?”

“Jo would like you to come in for another reading tomorrow.”

He could have called to tell her that.

“And to find out what you want for your dog. How about a hundred bucks?”

She couldn’t talk about Premonition. If she did, she’d start crying. “I don’t want anything.” She bowed her head over her bag, acting extremely interested in finding her key. Her fingers came in contact with the slice of plastic, but she continued the pretense of a search.

“Oh, come on. I know better than that. You always want something.”

She unlocked the door and flipped on the wall switch, revealing the room in all its squalid glory. Nothing looked out of place, and yet she got the impression someone had been there.

She dropped her bag on the bed. Daniel was right behind her, closing the door with a solid click, sliding the chain lock. He tossed something beside her bag. A packet of rubbers.

“I want you.”

She had to admire his directness. And yet she knew the words were a confession, something that came with reluctance, something he wasn’t proud of.

Remnants of her dream still lingered in her mind. The next day she was going to leave, money or no money. She’d had it with this town. She’d had it with Daniel Sinclair. But there was something so enticing, so decadent, about making love with someone you hated. There would be no worry over whether she measured up, because what difference did it make? She didn’t care what he thought. She knew what he thought. That she was trash. That she was devious. That she existed only for herself.

Let him think it.

She hated him.

She picked up the packet he’d dropped on the bed. She waved it a little, as though she were shaking down a packet of sugar. “I hope you brought more than one.”

He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and tossed two more on the bed. “I’ve had a hard-on ever since I had my fingers inside you.”

She swallowed, her hands hovering over her top. Should she just strip? He solved that problem by reaching for her jeans. He unbuttoned and unzipped them. They dropped to the floor. “Wait,” she whispered, slipping out of her sandals, then kicking free of the pants. “The light.”

Instead of turning off the light, he said, “I’ve waited too long.” He unzipped his own pants, freed his erection, grabbed a packet, opened it, and slipped on a condom, all in a flurry and whirling and heart-racing breath. With one hand, he tugged at the front of her underwear, practically ripping them from her. She fell to the bed, her feet still on the floor. He followed her down. Then, without removing any of his clothing, without kissing her or touching her, he entered her, his arms braced on either side of her head.

If not for the night in the other hotel, she might have given him the benefit of the doubt. But he knew how to bring a woman pleasure. He just wasn’t bothering.

She hated him. Oh, God, she hated him.

She stared at him, at his face, her anger shimmering around her. He thrust his hips against her, his eyes closed, his breath hard and fast, a lock of hair hanging over his forehead.

“Pig,” she said, calmly, clearly.

He hesitated.

“I hate you,” she added, as he drove into her one final time before collapsing on top of her.

“Was that supposed to be like a vaccination?” she asked while he was still inside her, his chest rising and falling, his breathing ragged. He was hot and sweaty, while she felt cold everywhere except where their bodies touched. “An unpleasant job you had to do in order to get me out of your system?”